TOKEN
Paul stared at the small baggies in his hand. After a fair amount of consideration, he set down the small egg-weight sinkers, choosing the split-shot ones instead. He glanced at the counter, which was still free of an attendant. Shaking his head, he stepped over to pick some hooks for his day out fishing.
“Man, guess the shipment’s late again,” he mumbled to himself while grabbing a couple packs of baitholders in place of the circle-hooks he preferred.
He walked over to the counter and set the little bags down. After a minute, he tapped the bell that rested on a coaster. The bell sounded sickly, and it looked that way too. Rather than the bright shiny silver of its younger days, it was a grimy brown with rust, and the push button atop it stuck in the down position.
“Hey, Chuck?” he said, not quite shouting but louder than his normal voice. He went to the door and stepped out, making sure the sign was turned to ‘OPEN.’ Letting the door close behind him, he tried again, “Hey, Chuck? You out here?”
Nothing. Paul briefly wondered if something had happened the day before that made Chuck forget to close up properly. After some thought and still no response, he walked to his truck and pulled an envelope from the glovebox. He decided to go ahead and take the hooks and sinkers along with a container of Canadian Nightcrawlers. The envelope was so he could leave a note and the money to cover the goods.
“Damn it,” he said, nearly tripping on the step as he dug through his wallet for the bills. He opened the door before focusing back on the green paper and trying to figure just how much he should leave. “Fifteen should be more than enough.”
He pulled the ten and five out and went to stuff it in the white envelope.
“Good morning!” a voice boomed much too joyfully.
The items in his hands fell to the floor as he jumped, startled. “What in the! Where did you come from?” he asked, meeting the eyes of a frail-looking, little, old man. Paul had no idea how such a tiny and ill-looking person could’ve been so loud.
“I was just around back. I didn’t mean to scare you, son,” the man said. “You seem to be ready to pay.”
“Um, yeah. Yeah. I just need those and a thing of worms.” Paul picked up a container out of the small refrigerator on the counter. He shook and opened it, checking the activeness of the nightcrawlers. “And you didn’t scare me. Just caught me off guard is all. I didn’t think anyone was here. Where’s Chuck?”
“Oh, Chuck? He had to run back home. Forgot something and asked me to hold down the fort. I’m afraid I’m doing a terrible job.” The old man punched in some numbers on the ancient cash register in front of him. “That’s all? You sure?”
Paul nodded. “That should do it.”
“That’ll be eleven sixty-two.”
Paul handed over the bills and accepted his change from the old man. “Well, I’ll be on my way. Tell Chuck I’m sorry I missed ‘im.”
“Will do, Paul. Good luck, but leave some fish for the rest of us.”
Something struck Paul as odd, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. So, with a shrug, he turned and walked back out of the tackle shop. When he got back to his truck, he reached in the bed for his tackle box.
He kicked his tire when his hands came up empty, realizing he’d forgot the box on his porch. “Shit, damn!” He opened the truck door and tossed the worm container and baggies on the seat before heading back in to face the little old man.
“Back so soon?”
“Yeah. Seems I left my tackle at home. Looks like I’m fishing simple today, so I’m going to need a bobber,” Paul said, turning to the shelf.
“Oh, you’re in luck. These just came in, and I was on my way to put them out.” The man held up a neon orange bobber. It was medium size and had black inserts on the top and bottom. Nothing special. “Here ya go.”
Paul’s mouth turned down on one side, and he glanced back at the ones on display. Shrugging, he approached the counter. “I guess I’ll take it. How much?”
“Don’t bother. Think of it as a token of my appreciation for not leaving earlier when you couldn’t find anyone around.” The man seemed to think for a second. “Here, have another. Give it to someone who needs it,” he added with a wink, handing over the neon orange bobber followed by a yellow one.
Paul hesitated but took them. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” He smiled. “That orange one’s yours. Gift the yellow.”
“Um, sure. Okay. Thanks . . . Well, I don’t know your name.” Paul gave an awkward chuckle.
“Eh, they call me Papy.”
“Uh, okay, Papy,” he said, forcing the name out oddly. “Well, thanks again.”
***
The drive to his usual fishing hole was uneventful, and Paul parked his truck on the side of the four-lane highway. He was surprised to find the spot empty. The small dam-like structure usually had half a dozen or so people fishing at it.
Even though he’d parked a considerable distance from the road, he checked to make sure there weren’t any oncoming cars that were too close. Seeing the coast was clear, he opened the door and stepped out, closing it behind him and hurried around to the other side of the truck.
He grabbed one of his rods from the bed, leaning it against the side before opening the passenger door to collect the hooks and sinkers. He pocketed the baggies then picked up the container of worms. Glancing at the bobbers, he wondered if he should just fish bottom, but he knew there were far too many fallen trees to do that.
Gift the yellow. He swore he could practically hear the words whispered as he remembered them. A chill went down his spine, but he shook it off, shoving the orange bobber in his pocket and wrapping his fingers around the yellow one.
“Pfft, it’s just a damn bobber. What’s it matter which one I gift . . . if I don’t just decide to keep them both,” he said, shaking his head while walking to the cement wall that doubled as a walkway.
A car passed by on the road behind him. There was a small thud followed by a strange whistle. Paul turned in time to see a stick fly into his back window with a crack, and then it clanked as it fell into the bed.
“Well, damn!” he said, going back to the truck. “Of course, it broke. Just my luck.” He blew out his breath with a huff. It could’ve been worse. The glass could’ve shattered completely, but as it was, there was only a spiderweb-crack. He decided he’d worry about it later.
Pushing the anger down, he went back on his way to get his fishing line in the water. The concrete wall was plenty wide enough to walk on with room to spare, which seeing as it had water on both sides for most of its length, that was a good thing. Paul hadn’t quite reached the end when he chose a spot to leave the worms, so he wouldn’t accidentally knock them in the water. It was there that he baited his hook and put the bobber in place.
He flipped the bail, cast his line, and waited. Fifteen minutes passed by before the bright yellow float wiggled and bounced up and down on the water. Finally, it plunged beneath the surface. Paul pulled back on the pole, setting the hook.
By some weird fluke, the bottom of the fishing pole slipped into his shirt pocket. He tried reeling, but the drag kicked in, causing the hum noise it creates when the line gets pulled from the reel. He pulled back harder, fighting the fish, and he tried again to turn the crank. The handle grabbed hold of the shirt pocket where the bottom pole was still hung. The free spinning end of the handle slipped in the slit for the button on the pocket. Before Paul could understand what had happened, the fish jerked with all its might, nearly tugging the pole from his grip. He held tight, but the action ripped the pocket from his shirt, leaving a hole where the pocket had been.
Paul lurched forward, almost going head-first into the dark waters. Upon gaining his ground, the line had gone slack. He reeled it in with a fierce determination, but the fish had seized the opportunity and made its escape.
“Damn it!” he said, turning and throwing the pole to the bank.
The end of the rod crashed into the mud-slick ground, but something was amiss. Paul studied the scene in front of him as he mindlessly fingered the hole in his shirt. It took a moment before he figured out what was wrong. While the end of the pole sat on the bank, the tip was well off the ground, pointing in his direction, and the bobber hung just out of reach a few feet in front of him.
“What in the hell?” His tone, perplexed. He twirled his fingers in his chest hair just beneath the shirt’s fabric. “How the fuck did that even happen?”
At some point in his fit, as he threw the pole, the bail had flipped open, allowing the line to pull free of the spool. The hook and sinkers on the free-flowing line managed to wrap themselves around a tree branch. When the pole hit the ground, the bail flipped shut, leaving the line taut.
Deciding there would be no way to reach the line to try and pull it down, he walked along the cement wall and carefully stepped onto the slippery mud. He picked up the rod and tugged. The line held strong, and the hook and sinkers wouldn’t budge.
He gripped tight on the pole above the reel and took a couple steps back. The limb bent, and Paul thought for sure it would break from the pressure. He took another step back, adjusting his hands. The knuckle of his thumb brushed the line, and it screamed in protest with a high-pitched twang. The tension broke, and Paul heard the whistle of the weights sing through the air right before they smashed into his left cheek. He felt them fall to his shoulder and roll down his back.
The soles of his boots slipped and slid on the mud. He threw his arms wide, trying to keep his balance. He managed to steady himself. Huffing from the exertion, he began turning the crank of the reel, bringing in the slack.
“Fuckin’ hell! That was close.” He stopped reeling and brought one hand to his cheek, coming away with bloody fingers. “Guess I should call it a day. Go home, clean this up, and see how bad it is. Don’t feel like tying another hook on anyway, ‘cause I’m sure it’s stuck in that tree. Else it would’ve took my eye out,” he grumbled to himself as he went back to reeling in the slack.
A cracking sound came from his right, and when he turned to see what could have made the noise, there was a slight tug at the back of his pants. He turned further, too quickly, to see what had caused the tugging; his foot had begun to slide in the mud again. This time when his arms went wide, there was a biting sensation in his calf. The pain stole his concentration, causing him to fall and careen down the bank. The biting turned into a tearing feeling, and as he slid into the dark waters, the pain turned into a burning sensation.
His butt came to a stop in the mucky bottom. Looking around, he tried to understand what exactly had happened. He was sitting in three inches of mud covered with another ten inches of brown water. His fishing line was wrapped around his right arm, and the rod and reel it was connected to lay on the bank. His calf throbbed, and he hoped like hell he hadn’t been bitten by a cottonmouth. Though, he saw no snake while checking his surroundings.
He went to stand, but when he moved his arm, the searing in his calf flared. “Son of a bitch!” he growled.
Reaching over with his left hand, he plucked ever so lightly at the fishing line, testing if it was the offender. The pain sang through him, again, making him cringe. He brought his left hand down to the right pocket of his pants and felt that the pocketknife he had was still there. Trying to cause as little movement as possible, he wiggled the knife free.
“Well, at least that’s one thing that’s gone right,” he said as he opened the knife partway, just enough to slip the line in and cut it. Not wanting to risk another mishap, he closed the knife back up and tossed it to the bank. It landed next to the fishing rod.
The tension on the line being broken made the pain ease. He unwrapped the part that was still on his arm, noticing the yellow bobber. Once free, he grabbed the brightly colored styrofoam and chucked it as hard as he could.
“Stupid thing. Stupid old man. Gift the yellow,” he said in a mocking tone. “Mumbo-jumbo. Hullabaloo!”
He stood up, ignoring the pain in his calf as he made his way out of the water. He picked up his pole and knife from the ground then walked over to the cement wall to grab the worms. He knew he should check his leg, but he wanted to get out of there. He’d had enough.
Walking to his truck, he dipped down and grabbed the bobber, but something caught his attention. A white styrofoam cooler sat in the shade, scrawled on its side was a note that read: EXTRA BAIT? SHARING IS CARING. USE WHAT YOU NEED, GIVE WHAT YOU DON’T.
He glanced to the worm canister and then to the annoying yellow float. Shrugging, he approached the cooler and lifted the lid. Inside was a brick, he assumed was to weigh down the light material, and four ice packs surrounding it. No bait. He dropped in the worm container and bobber, and then he dug into his pants’ pockets for the other bobber and the bags holding the weights and hooks, tossing them in beside the worms. He replaced the lid firmly and walked away.
The exertion of walking up the incline to his truck caused his injured calf to burn, making the trickle of blood seeping into his shoe nearly unnoticeable. He reached the truck’s bed and decided he should check the damage on his leg before heading out. He dropped the tailgate and sat on it as a car pulled onto the shoulder behind his truck. Trying to ignore the newcomers, he focused on his wound, stretching his good leg along the tailgate.
His pant leg was scrunched up in the way, so he pried the pocketknife out again. He opened it fully and proceeded to cut off the denim just below the knee, ignoring the growing red puddle below his leg.
There was a whistle beside him as he gaped at the wound that started above the ankle and ran up to just below the back of his knee. “That is going to need stitches, my friend.”
Looking to his right, Paul spotted a tall man with dirty blond hair, who appeared to be in his early forties. He grunted before saying, “Do you normally sneak up on people and state the obvious? How about a ‘hello’ or ‘are you okay’?”
“Sorry. It just looked like you might need some help, and, well, then I saw that. Caught me off guard,” the guy replied. “You need a ride to get that checked and maybe grab a cold-pack for that cheek? I’m sure my girl wouldn’t mind waiting here for me to get back.”
Paul watched as the man casually licked his bottom lip then pulled it between his teeth. He felt uneasy, sensing something was off with the guy. “That’s awfully kind of you, but I think it just looks worse than it really is.”
He didn’t believe his own words. The hook was still embedded firmly in the muscle, and the gouge had to be a good half inch or so deep and more than a foot long. The puddling blood began to make him grow queasy. He took the strip of denim he’d cut from his pants and tied it, not too tightly, around his upper calf.
He hadn’t noticed the woman approach. She and the man were talking quietly to each other. She glanced briefly at Paul’s leg, and she paled.
“I’ll be on my way. Get this looked at. If you guys are fishing, I left some worms in that cooler down there,” he told them.
“I really don’t mind taking you to get help.” The guy stepped closer; his eyes gleaming with some sort of desire.
“Nah. I’m good. There’s a clinic ten minutes down the road. I’ll be fine.” Paul slipped off the tailgate and closed it, avoiding putting his full weight on his injured leg. He maneuvered oddly around the side of the truck, not feeling comfortable enough to turn his back on the strange man. “If I see you’re still here when I come back by, I’ll stop to let you know I made it.”
He fidgeted with the key and unlocked his door, opening it. Finally turning his back, he climbed in, shut the door, and locked it before looking into his rearview mirror, finding the couple enjoying a kiss. He shook his head and started the truck, pulling away after seeing the road was clear.
***
Three and a half hours passed by before Paul climbed in his truck to head home. A little worse for wear, he was a proud owner of both an internal and external layer of stitches and a prescription for 800mg ibuprofen.
He’d planned to keep an eye out for the couple, but when he reached the fishing hole, their car was gone and the area had been roped off with police caution tape. There was, however, a tow truck that had just started pulling away, hauling a pick-up truck with a boat and trailer.
He thought the scene odd but continued on his way. About a half-mile down the road, on the grassy shoulder, sat a news van. Thinking back, he’d heard hushed voices of a horrible accident when he was at the walk-in clinic, but he hadn’t gotten the impression it was newsworthy.
Another half-hour and Paul limped in through his backdoor and pulled off his shoes. He tossed the prescription on the counter, figuring he’d fill it later. He had plenty of the over-the-counter stuff.
A grey and white fluffball of a cat ran over and rubbed against his injured leg. “Sorry there, Gargar. This old man had a bit of bad luck, and I don’t think I can handle your tough love right now.”
He scooped up the cat, scratched her head, and then set her down on her bed where she began to play with her toys. Hobbling, he made his way to his chair, sat down, and used the remote to turn on the television. His curiosity had him switching to the station the news van belonged to, taking note that the news wouldn’t start for another twenty minutes.
After suffering through the rest of the boring, quiz program that had been on, he gave his full attention to the tv, waiting to see if they’d discuss what happened. It didn’t take long before the anchor introduced the story, with a picture of the blond male Paul had met earlier that day hovering above his left shoulder. The feed changed to a scrawny, dark-haired man standing next to the cement wall at the fishing spot.
“A string of bad luck on a day of fishing turned into tragedy for a couple today. Soon after Jamie Litman and Susan Tribly arrived, Jamie was stung by a wasp, hit with a falling tree branch, and fell off of this cement wall. When the couple decided to leave, we were told by Ms. Tribly, who did not want to appear on camera, that Jamie accidentally dropped some fishing tackle by his door, and when he bent down to pick it up, a passing truck pulling a boat decapitated him. The details on how this happened are unclear, at this time, but we’ll give an update when more information is available.”
The program went back to the anchors at the news desk, but Paul was left in shock. He felt his mouth gaped open and forced it shut as he turned off the tv.
“Damn, Gargoyle, I thought I had a bad day,” Paul said to the cat across the room.
***
Two weeks later, Paul walked into the tackle shop. He was still a bit shaken by what had happened, but his leg had healed, and he was going stir-crazy and in need of a day fishing.
Shutting the door, Paul was greeted by a familiar voice. “Hey, I was beginning to wonder if you’d ran off on me since I was closed up a couple weeks back,” Chuck said.
“What do you mean? You had someone else running the shop. I picked up some tackle here the week before last, and you had some spooky old man working. He gave me a couple of bobbers for free because he wasn’t inside when I was ready to check out. Papy . . . I believe is what he said his name was.” Paul quirked his eyebrow and then nodded to himself as confirmation that the name was correct. “Yep, Papy.”
“You’re trying to get my goat. Eve had her gallbladder removed, so I was up at the hospital with her. You know I wouldn’t let anyone run my shop. I certainly wouldn’t let some spooky old man named Papy run it either. Hell, I don’t even know anyone named Papy.” Chuck rubbed at his chin, appearing to be in deep thought. “But I did see that name, this morning I believe.”
“Come on, Chuck. I was here. I got hooks, sinkers, and worms. He gave me the bobbers. Said some weird nonsense about the orange one being mine and to gift the yellow. Then I went to my usual spot. It was a shit day. I left everything but my poles there ‘cause I had to go get stitches.” Paul pulled up his pant leg, showing Chuck the new, shiny pink scar.
“Your usual spot? Isn’t that where the guy lost his head. I’d say it was a terrible accident, but I’m pretty sure he got what he deserved,” Chuck said.
“Man, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. That’s cold.” Paul shook his head in disbelief at what his friend had told him.
“Haven’t you watched or read the news the past few days?” Chuck asked, and then his eyes went wide. “You have, and you’re joshing me. Papy, that’s funny in a dark way, I suppose. Now I remember where I saw the name.” He ducked down and began rustling through some stuff.
“I don’t know what you’re on about.” Anger began to build in Paul’s chest as one of his oldest friends accused him of some sort of practical joke.
“This is what I’m on about.” Chuck put a newspaper on the counter, turning it around so Paul could read it.
A picture of the old man was on the right side of the paragraphs Chuck pointed to. Paul read them out loud, trying to understand what it was saying.
“One of Litman’s victims was a 98-year-old North Dakota man named William ‘Papy’ Witherspoon. Papy’s severed head was found in a large freezer with fifty-seven others. He’d gone missing nearly a year ago, and while his family is terribly upset by what happened to him, they are glad to find some closure in finally knowing.
“Litman’s girlfriend, Susan Tribly, claims to know nothing of his extracurricular activities. Stating that she’s appalled to find out she’d been dating a serial killer. There is an investigation to find out if what she says is true and whether charges should be brought against her.” Paul returned his gaze to his friend.
“Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say this is the first you’re hearing of this. I’m not buying it, Paul, and frankly, I find it disturbing that you’ve made up a story like this. Next, you’ll be telling me you gave that yellow bobber to this Litman guy.” Chuck frowned.
Paul stared on for a minute in silence. “But, in a way, I did. I told them I’d left my bait in the cooler. They probably took the tackle too. That bobber, Chuck, I used it. It had bad juju. Everything was going wrong until I put it in that damned ‘sharing’ cooler.”
“Hey, you okay? You’re pale.” Chuck grabbed the phone off the counter. “You don’t look good. I’m calling for help.”
“You don’t understand! This old man,” Paul poked at the picture on the page, “was in here two weeks ago; he was running your shop. He gave me the bobbers. Said they were a token of his appreciation and told me to gift the fucking yellow one.”
He began to hyperventilate. His head was pounding, and his left shoulder began to ache. With shaky legs, he slowly lowered himself to the floor, ignoring the pain from his freshly healed wound.
“Hey, Paul, try to calm down. Help’s on the way,” Chuck tried to persuade him as he knelt down, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“How was he here, Chuck? How? He knew my name . . . How? Why?” Paul’s vision began to blur and blacken at the edges.
“I don’t know, but everything’s going to be okay. Help’s coming.”
